


Hold Fast to Dreams

by Airdanteine, Fancy_Dragonqueen, GavotteAndGigue, Nottak, solomonara, stevieraebarnes



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragons, Dreams, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Parallel Universes, Past Lives, Soulmates, Wings, future lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airdanteine/pseuds/Airdanteine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fancy_Dragonqueen/pseuds/Fancy_Dragonqueen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GavotteAndGigue/pseuds/GavotteAndGigue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nottak/pseuds/Nottak, https://archiveofourown.org/users/solomonara/pseuds/solomonara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevieraebarnes/pseuds/stevieraebarnes
Summary: Jason and Dick get hit with a curse while on a mission that puts them into an enchanted sleep. As they sleep, they dream many dreams... of each other. Past lives, parallel lives, and of futures to come.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 65
Kudos: 246
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2019





	1. The Beginning. Ish.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/gifts), [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



> Our collaborative thank you gift to [empires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires) and [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus) for organizing the [2019 JayDick exchange!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/JayDickSummerExchange2)
> 
> Thanks to [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon) for the beta.
> 
> In the spirit of the jaydick summer exchange, feel free to guess who did what before we list the content creators for each chapter :)

It was a cloudy Sunday morning and Jason was dicing an onion and thinking of Dick. The onion probably didn't deserve the resulting aggression, but it was getting diced either way so Jason just focused on not nicking his fingers since his brain was determined to be a bastard about this.

It was just. Onions were necessary for making pasta sauce. Jason wanted pasta sauce. Therefore he had to chop an onion. And apparently therefore he had to think of that time Dick had walked into the manor kitchen and found Jason "crying." Dick had immediately assumed Bruce had done something stupid and demanded Jason tell him exactly what it was. Jason had recognized the look on his face pretty well; he'd seen Dick's looking-for-a-fight expression often enough. But when Dick realized the only issue in that kitchen was between Jason and the onion, his expression had transformed into something new, and well worth seeing.

That had been before, when Jason had been nothing but alive, when he'd looked at Dick with wonder and resentment and wanting all rolled up into a confusing ball of emotions and hormones with a mask stuck on it. Dick's laughter at his own mistake, sudden as the sun clearing a cloud, did nothing to untangle any of that.

Anyway, the Onion Incident had been the first time Dick had showed any kind of liking, or even just concern, for Jason outside of the night job, and Jason remembered thinking that maybe that was a sign, or a turning point or something, that maybe he and Dick could actually be colleagues or even friends.

For about a month, it looked like he might be right. And then he'd died and things had gotten so much more complicated. Case in point: he couldn't chop an onion without thinking of this one stupid moment that Dick probably didn't even remember, a moment Jason hadn't thought of in years and that he had no desire to be thinking of right now.

So, when his phone rang, he glanced over at it hoping for a distraction. The display read _Dickface_ and Jason frowned.

 _It's supposed to be_ speak _of the devil, not think of him,_ he thought, eyeing the phone warily. Sometimes he wondered if Dick could read his mind - like on the rare occasion necessity demanded they team up - and other times he fervently hoped he could not - like just after those occasions when they were both flushed with adrenaline and danger and Jason had to dig deep to snap at Dick and look away. Run away.

But those were Jason's issues, not Dick's, and say what he would about him, Jason couldn't say Dick ever called needlessly. Besides, when you were thinking of someone you only heard from sporadically and then they called you out of the blue, you answered. That was just good sense. Jason picked up.

"What?" he asked in lieu of a civilized greeting.

"Hello to you, too," Dick said.

"Don't act like you called to talk. What do you need?"

Dick huffed slightly, fuzzing the line a bit. "Fine. Just letting you know I'm going to be in your part of town tomorrow night looking into something potentially magic-based. So don't accidentally shoot me if you see me skulking around, all right?"

"If I shoot you it'll be on purpose," Jason said distractedly. He'd just realized his hands smelled strongly of onions, which meant his phone now smelled like onions. He switched it to speaker and dropped it back on the counter. "You gonna tell me anything else about this potential magical problem brewing in my neighborhood?"

"Are we on speakerphone?" Dick asked.

"Don't worry, we're alone."

"And me without my chaperone," Dick said wryly. It was a stupid, cheesy line and there was no reason it should have made Jason's face heat except that his reading habits lately consisted mostly of Regency novels of manners.

"Whatever. Call me if you need back-up," Jason said, then froze. That wasn't what he'd meant to say. He'd meant to say something like _Just try not to turn us all into pumpkins or blow the Narrows off the map,_ and then hang up.

From the extra beat of silence, Dick hadn't been expecting the offer either. "Uh, I will. Thanks. Should be just recon, though."

"Just try to avoid turning us all into pumpkins or something." Ha, there, back on track. Except now it sounded playful instead of harsh. Damn it.

"I'll do my best." Dick sounded amused, and Jason had forgotten the hanging up part of his little comeback. "Later, Jay." And then _Dick_ hung up.

Jason scowled and took it out on the onion.

* * *

The pasta sauce turned out delicious, but Jason ended up freezing most of it. He never had got the hang of cooking for one. And now it was the following afternoon and Jason had cleaned the entirety of his current apartment, made rounds to a few of his other bolt holes to make sure they were supplied, checked all of his equipment three times, and now had to admit he was feeling restless.

He glanced out the window for the fifth time in thirty minutes. Surely the sun should be setting a little faster. He had energy to work off, and there was definitely a face deserving of his fist somewhere out there. There always was.

This excess of energy had nothing to do with Dick coming out tonight, of course. It was just something in the air making him itchy for rooftops, for running, for exhausting himself. It felt like _potential_ , like something was going to happen, and happen soon, but he had to be out there to meet it.

Or maybe that was Dick's potential magic-based problem. Magic could be like that, getting under your skin and into your head. Either way, though, Jason wanted to be out and doing. The minute the shadows were deep enough, before the sun had even properly set and twilight was just a side-effect of being surrounded by tall buildings, he geared up and headed out.

It was almost worse once he was out in the city. He wanted to run several different directions at once. Gotham decided for him, though; he followed the screams to a small-time gang fight and his night only got better from there.

A mugger, a robbery, a drug deal; all mundane things keeping the Red Hood pleasantly busy. He was keeping an eye out for bigger fish, though. Dick's phone call might have been a courtesy (And, loathe though he was to admit it, Jason did appreciate that. Catch Bruce giving him a heads up before stomping all over this part of town. Not likely.) but it was also a warning, casual enough that Jason wouldn't arm himself to the teeth and go chasing after whatever it was, but enough to make sure he'd keep his eyes open.

Sometimes it worried Jason how well Dick knew him.

It also worried him, a little, how he'd been veering east all night without really noticing it until now. This wasn't any of his normal patrol routes, and if he did have a 'territory' this would be pushing the bounds of it. It was late now, and quiet in this part of town, all closed up businesses and buildings that had seen better days.

Which meant that there _should_ be life in this area: homeless people carving a place to exist where they could, addicts looking for a quiet spot to get high or come down, dealers looking for customers, kids looking for trouble…

Something was wrong. Jason could feel it like he felt the All Blades, like he felt the Pit in his veins; like his soul was trying to crawl out from his throat and scream.

If someone had asked about what happened next and if Jason had been inclined to answer, he would have said that he must have followed a thousand subliminal environmental cues looking for the source of his unease. Maybe that was what he did; but Jason, in the moment, was only conscious of a tug, an instinct, something telling him to check a condemned apartment building, to go down to the basement.

He eased down stairs that sagged under his weight but didn't creak. They were open, no wall to hide behind as he descended into air heavy and chill with damp. He could feel it even though he had almost no skin exposed. He was almost convinced he could smell it, too, ghosts of mold and rot drifting through the vents in his helmet.

And there was… singing.

Jason stilled on the stairs, squinting into the gloom. The basement was dim but not dark, a single exposed bulb doing its best in a corner with a rusting washer and dryer unit. There were a few sagging cardboard boxes along the cinderblock walls and four metal load-bearing poles spaced evenly throughout, sunk into a pitted and scarred concrete floor. And in the precise middle, kneeling with his arms slack at his sides and his head tipped back, was Nightwing. Sapphire light was streaming from the hollow of his throat, curling into the air like a ribbon toward a silver spinning wheel with a figure seated at it. Jason had to pause, staring, to process what he was seeing.

The person at the wheel was tall and thin and robed. He was _drawing_ the ribbon of light out of Nightwing, running it through his hands and feeding it into the orifice as the spinning wheel whirled and flashed in the scant light. Already the bobbin had a thick coil of sparkling blue thread around it.

The spinner was chalk-pale, his white hair so fine it floated around his shoulders and pointed ears. He sang as he spun, something haunting and low that sounded like the tide rolling in. Spindly fingers gave the light flowing from Nightwing's throat a tiny twist here and there as it passed through them to be threaded on the bobbin, and every time he did, Nightwing swayed a little on his knees.

Jason's helmet pinged in his ear and he blinked, coming out of a daze. The flash of light off the silver wheel, the steady whir as it spun whatever it was pulling from Nightwing into thread, and the spinner's singing had hypnotized him; luckily, his HUD alerted him that his pulse had dropped. Also luckily, the spinner was intently focused on his work.

Jason shot him in the arm.

There was an unearthly screech and a bright flash of gold light that left Jason seeing spots even with his helmet's protective filters. When his vision cleared, the spinner was lying on the floor unmoving and the spinning wheel had halted. Tarnish was overtaking it quickly, spreading like black frost over the silver.

Nightwing had also fallen to the ground. That blue thread of light was no longer pouring from his throat, but the tail end of it that hadn't been spun yet was just hovering in the air, twisting slightly as the wheel slowed and dulled.

Jason leapt the rest of the way down the stairs and ran to them, checking the spinner first. A raised, cherry-red welt slashed across the spinner's face. He'd been whipped by whatever he was spinning, somehow. Jason didn't know what he was, but he seemed to be out cold. He zip-tied his wrists and ankles anyway; it might not help, depending on what he was dealing with, but it couldn't hurt.

"Jay?" came a low, slurred voice. Jason went to Dick, kneeling next to him but keeping the spinner in his vision.

"Nightwing," Jason said. "Are you all right?" Dick hadn't moved, lying on his side where he'd fallen. Jason couldn't tell if his eyes were open or not behind the mask, but Dick wasn't looking at him.

"Where… are we?" Dick mumbled. He sounded like he was trying to speak through syrup, like he was just waking up. Or falling asleep.

"Tell me what happened," Jason said, activating the distress signal in Dick's suit. Dick mumbled something Jason couldn't make out at all. "Nightwing, status," Jason barked. He knew his Batman impression was good. But Dick's only reaction was to twitch one arm toward the spinning wheel.

"It's dark, Red," he said. And then his whole body relaxed, tension leaking from it just like the blue light had been.

Jason frantically tugged off his gloves and checked for Dick's pulse. He found it, faint and fading. He stared around wildly. The spinner was still unconscious, no time to bring him round and demand answers. That left the thread.

Jason lurched toward the spinning wheel, trying to figure out how to get the thread from it, hands hovering over the tail end of blue light, then the bobbin. The steady sapphire glow hadn't flagged, but Dick was getting paler by the second. Jason grasped the floating end of the light, the part that hadn't yet been spun.

With a high shriek the bobbin sprang back to life, whirling on its axis so quickly it was nothing but a blue blur. The thread _unwound_ itself, skeining back out of the lead and tangling around Jason's hands like a living snake made of light. Jason clutched it and stumbled toward Dick, not sure what he intended, knowing only that this light was Dick's, that it had come from him and needed to return.

It was warm in his hands, and then it was _hot_ , hot like the first swallow of tea after a night out in the cold. It didn't burn, but Jason could feel heat spreading from his hands up through his arms. His vision seemed to be sparkling at the edges.

He dropped to his knees next to Dick, holding the light out like an offering. Something must be wrong with his helmet; everything looked washed in blue. He shoved his hands out more insistently, meaning to drop the light directly on Dick's chest and let it do what it would. But instead he wobbled a little, suddenly light-headed, and tipped forward, spilling across Dick's chest himself.

The blue layering his vision faded, leaving nothing but black.


	2. Liminal

Blue floated languidly through the Liminal, wings unfurled and outstretched as he drifted through the sunbeams. He felt the warmth of them, invigorating and calming at the same time. He let himself bask in it for a long while, letting the heat of it absorb into his wings, then folding them around himself. It felt like a comforting embrace.

He let out a sigh, feeling a familiar pang in his heart. It seemed like he'd been waiting a long time, but even if he had to wait an eternity—which was entirely possible—he would wait.

Blue folded his wings tighter, stroking his fingers over the soft edges, and tried not to feel dejected. The bright cobalt-blue wings were a vestige from his last life, but he wasn't quite ready to let them go, because if he did, Blue was afraid he wouldn't be able to find _him_ again. He was supposed to be letting go, but he just couldn't. Not yet.

At least not until he could be sure of one final aspect of his next life's journey. It was the one thing he'd been waiting for, and he tried not to be impatient. Not every soul was comfortable leaving part of their journey up to chance, he reminded himself. Some souls needed time, particularly the one who had kept him waiting, and Blue had to let the other find his way back to him. That was his hope at least, and he trusted that the Liminal would allow that to happen.

The Liminal itself was not so much a place, but a state of being, in which each soul was meant to shed it’s material attachments before continuing on to the next journey. Blue had done a lot of that already. He'd planned and made his contracts and agreements. He'd found all the souls that he wanted to make the next journey with him, all except one. The most important one. And he had been waiting and waiting, looking for some sign that the other was ready.

There was none. So he continued to wait.

Time and space was a funny thing in the Liminal. Souls were always here, and at the same time somehow not. One didn't exactly enter and exit like one did into the Living, and just because someone went back first, that didn't necessarily line up with how time flowed. Timing was just part of the agreements made, and a soul was available simply when and if they wanted to be.

Blue had made himself available for a while now, so much that souls he hadn't expected started turning up. They were easily turned away, and he could stop them from coming simply by wanting it so, but he didn't want to close up just yet. Just in case. 

He unfurled his wings again, and was just about to take another turn through the sunbeams, when he felt the pull of something familiar. He spun around, a surge of hope welling inside him, and sure enough— _there!—_ a horizon forming at the edge of his domain, with the hint of a soft red glow.

Excitement coursed through him. Finally! He flew forward, diving through the clouds and piercing the sunbeams until he reached the threshold of the red glow. Blue slowed down then, remembering that sometimes his enthusiasm could be overwhelming.

He approached in what he thought was a more sedate pace, until he saw coming into fruition before him a familiar boy with vibrant red wings. The bold color of his feathers was unique and made the boy immediately recognizable, and Blue felt a warmth spread through him at the sight. So Red hadn't let go of that part of himself either. Maybe he'd wanted Blue to remember him, too. 

"Little Wing," Blue reached to embrace him, "I've been waiting for you!"

Red let Blue hug him, with only a slight protest, "Don't call me that! It… it doesn't matter here anymore."

"But you kept them," Blue replied, stroking at Red's bright feathers. "You kept them for me. I kept mine, too."

Red flushed, but didn't deny it, and to Blue's delight, Red spread his wings to wrap around them both. The feeling of being folded into Red's wings brought that familiar pang again, and Blue held onto him tighter.

"I missed you so much," Blue said.

"I know," Red mumbled into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I just needed time."

"I know." The memory of Red's sacrifice in their last lifetime flashed through Blue's mind. He hadn't let that memory go either, as much as it had hurt to keep it.

They stood together in each other's wings a little longer, before Red finally pulled away. "I… I've been working on my path," he said, a little shy and hesitant. "I was thinking… maybe we could… um…," Red trailed off, too embarrassed apparently to continue.

Blue thought it was cute, and took pity on him. "I can show you mine? I left room for you," he offers. 

It’s true. Blue left _a lot_ of room, because if they truly did want the same thing—then there would have to be a lot of shuffling to make sure things fit—to make sure that they could both get the Lessons they wanted from the next life while traveling _together._

Blue pictured his path in his mind's eye, and a rolled up blueprint appeared in his hand. Red had created some kind of rocky landscape for them, and Blue squatted on the ground and unrolled the paper over the stone floor. Red followed suit, shuffling over to sit beside him. Their wings brushed against each other as Red settled in close.

Red leaned in to look over the intricate map that Blue had laid out, tracing his finger over the pathways, running over the layers of mind and soul, lingering over the line of the heart…. There was a criss-cross of lovers in the early years, but then it abruptly stops. Red frowned, but didn't say anything. He continued following the line briefly, but it remained open-ended, so he went on to touch each of the major Lessons that Blue had hoped to learn. Blue watched Red inspect everything closely. Blue had left a lot of it open to possibility, but it was still carefully planned in hopes that Red would—

"No," Red suddenly said, and Blue looked back at him, confused.

"What?"

"I said _no_." Red crossed his arms.

"Why?" Blue blinked at him, crestfallen.

"You can't…," Red shook his head. "You can't possibly do all this. You can't do every single one of these Lessons. You can't fly after the path of the bat! You're a _bird,_ and where the heck did all these _other birds_ come from?" Red shook his head again. "You can't possibly carry all this alone. It's going to hurt you too much!"

Oh! Red was worried about him! Blue unfurled a wing to fold over Red. "I'm not going to do this alone," he soothed. "Look, I made a lot of agreements. I'm going to have friends. Lots of them. I'm going to have a family. They're going to help me like I'm helping them."

"Then what's this?" Red pointed at a forked path, one branch continuing on through a maze of more forked paths, the other truncated short. Death. "And this?" Red pointed at another one. Another possible death. "And this?" Yet another. "I can't let you leave all that to chance!"

Blue smiled at him. "I'm not," he said, folding the wing around Red tighter. "I left those spots open for _you_ to find me. So you could save me."

Red gaped for a long moment, open-mouthed and speechless. Then color crept into his face, and he looked down. "Oh." He looked back up. "Really?"

"Yeah," Blue nodded. "Really."

"I just wasn't sure you still wanted to… you know." Red's vibrant wings shuddered. He still remembered what happened, too. "After _last time."_ Red kept his words vague. "And your path is so full already. I just thought… there wasn't room for me."

"Hey, no, Little Wing." Blue didn't just fold a wing over Red this time, he folded Red into his arms. "I didn't leave everything up to chance, I left room for you. I waited for you."

"I'm not your Little Wing anymore," Red objected again, but there was no heat behind it. "You're only a few lifetimes older than me anyway."

"It's written in my path to find some way to call you Little Wing," Blue teased. He followed on with a gentle nudge. "Come on then. Let me see what you've got planned."

Red sighed, looking a little sidelong at Blue. "You're not gonna like it." He stood up, shaking out his wings and stretching them to their fullest. His wingspan was larger than Blue's, even with him never having reached his full maturity. He had been a _bloodbird_ after all, the largest and deadliest of predators. Their kind had ruled the skies. Nomadic foragers like Blue had barely stood a chance if not for their speed.

Red backed up to make some space, then flicked a wing hard at the stone floor. There was a spray of red feathers that turned wet and viscous as soon as it hit the stone, then coalesced into a pattern of lines. Red didn't look up, but Blue could see his eyes had darkened, and his fingers had shifted into talons. It was overly dramatic, and in life it would have been horrific, but Blue wasn't scared. He'd never been scared of Red in either Life or the Liminal.

Blue stepped forward so he could look at the pattern of bloodlines that Red had laid out on the floor, and his immediate reaction was one of dismay. The path was complicated, with multiple converging agreements, but it was also truncated. A life cut short _again._ And not only that, it was incredibly lonely and painful. There was a line of heart, but once more, it was cut before the line could fully bloom.

Red was right. Blue didn't like this plan at all. If that cut heartline was meant for him, then that meant there would be no path together beyond that. Red was going to leave before that could happen.

"I thought…" Blue struggled through a feeling of indescribable grief. It would be several lifetimes before he could fully shed that pain. "I thought you wanted to be together this time?" he finally said.

"I do," Red finally looked up at Blue, but he couldn’t hold eye contact as he said his next words. "I made a deal with Eleazar."

"The Lazarus?" Blue couldn't hide his shock. "No, you can't do that!"

"I… it's already done." Red flicked his wing in a spray of blood feathers again, and the pattern began to spread once more. The life path was renewed, but tainted. "I made the deal. I can do it," Red said, "if it's to learn a Lesson."

"You don't need to learn that Lesson," Blue argued back. "I've been doing this a few lives longer than you, and I know nobody _has_ to learn that Lesson!"

"I do," Red dug his heels in, "but that's not the Lesson I made the deal for."

"Then what?"

"I'm gonna learn to protect you." Red had his arms crossed again, standing rigidly. He never did like it when Blue tried to hold the extra lifetimes of experience over him. "I'm going to come back in this next life, and I'm gonna be bigger than you. Maybe even better, so when the time comes, I can save you."

"But…" Blue didn't quite know what to say. Red wanted to do this for _him?_ "You've already learned that Lesson though," he finally managed. Even if Red had let that memory go, which he clearly hadn't, Lessons stayed with a soul for eternity. 

"I want to learn it again," Red replied, a little more subdued this time. "You're… you're my _soulmate,_ and I let you down last time. I don't want to let that happen again."

Blue's heart ached at that, and he moved forward to embrace Red again. "You don't have to learn everything the hard way, you know."

Red snorted at that, but he was clutching Blue right back. "You're one to talk."

Blue stroked at Red's beautiful red feathers, murmuring into his hair, "What you did for me… you don't have to do that again. We'll figure something else out."

He felt Red shake his head, however. "You're going to do your thing again," Red said, "jumping in to save the day, but you're going to need someone to catch you. I want that soul to be me, and I don't want to die trying it once every lifetime. I'm gonna Learn to protect you, so I can do it for eternity."

Red took Blue's hands in his own. The bloody talons were gone, and Blue couldn't help but notice just how warm Red's hands were. It felt like the embrace of sunbeams.

"Okay," Blue conceded. "I don't like this, but if we do this, we're going to have to make some adjustments."

"I figured," Red nodded, and Blue felt relieved that Red hadn't put up a fight.

It was never an easy task to plan a lifetime together. Time had to be shifted and reshuffled if things were to fit. Agreements not yet solidified could break. Agreements that had already been set had to be worked around. Red wasn't thrilled at being temporally younger in their next arrangement, but he was eventually content with the assurance that he really would grow bigger. Blue was not-so-secretly looking forward to that.

Blue still managed to find a way to call Red his "Little Wing."

In retaliation, Red found a way to make Blue take on what he figured was a stupid name.

Surprise twist—Blue unexpectedly loved the name. 

Eventually, they finalized their plans. The only thing left to do was shed the last vestiges of their previous lives, including their wings. They stood at the precipice, holding hands. Red had set a horizon with Blue's favorite—warm sunbeams amidst an endless blue sky.

Red was surprisingly melancholy, given he hadn't actually lived that long with his wings. He looked over at Blue, and said, "I'm never going to see you again after this."

"You will. You know we'll be together eventually," Blue replied, but he knew what Red really meant. After they shed their wings, and after they shed their memories and their forms, they would never again be as they were now. Blue would never be Blue again. He'd never again have his brightly colored blue wings, and Red would never again sport the vivid red boldness of his blood feathers. 

"Before we go," Red gripped Blue's hand, "can we fly together for a while? We never really got the chance before… well, you know."

Blue knew. He meant before Red died. 

"Yes," Blue didn't hesitate in his reply. He leaned over and kissed Red sweetly on the mouth. They never really got to do that before either.

Red kissed him back, and he smiled at Blue as they parted. He took a deep breath. "Ready?"

Blue nodded. 

They jumped off the precipice together, and glided away into the sky.


	3. The Knight and the Squire

Jason falls.

He falls through darkness, through nothing, and then he sits at a heavily laden table surrounded by raucous laughter, plucked string music, and wafting scents of everything from roasted meats to damp wool.

The garments draped upon his person feel both smothering and familiar, and his brain seems to understand exactly what is happening so he asks no questions. He looks down at his sleeves, curious to what he wears, and finds himself in a crimson red jacket buttoned over a linen tunic with silk trim—a gift from his patron, he understands.

A voice beside him speaks out. “You look nervous, Jason. Surely you are ready to be named a shield bearer?”

Jason turns his head at the sound and meets a familiar face. Roy Harper sits beside him in what Jason realizes is a crowded hall of stone and richly colored woven textiles.

“As always, I find myself in an unknown situation,” he says, resigned and unperplexed.

“You are Sir Bruce's favorite. Surely there is nothing unknown about your future. I think your only competition is the Brat, but he’s years away from eligibility."

Roy nods his head at a dour-faced boy of eight, placed at the end of the Dark Knight's own table of prominence, closer to the damp stone wall than the candle-lit table. The boy strikes a posture of impending doom to all who come near him, even as he sits resplendent in what can only be the best finery the Wayne coffers can buy: in rich greens and embroidered gold and tiny iridescent pearls.

A voice warbles throughout, an announcement interrupting the meal they partake in, and more figures process in. The newcomers make their way to the Dark Knight, kiss the terrifying ring on his hand—a bat emblem made of onyx—and pledge their continued loyalty to the land and to the Dark Knight’s quest to set fire to the chaotic forces of evil who trespass against them.

One of the newly arrived knights catches Jason’s eye.

“Look, it’s the Dark Heir himself,” Squire Roy says.

A solitary man in knee high black boots, folded to reveal a good leg, strides into the hall. He wears no jewelry; no brooch or belt to distract from the closely tailored and cropped cotehardie that shows off his trim waist and broad chest. Jason can hear the conversations in the hall shift as their collective gaze falls to the newly-arrived man. He is both modern Dick Grayson and the elseworldly Sir Richard, the Dark Heir: knight of Gotham and chosen benefactor to the Dark Knight himself, Sir Bruce.

“The ladies are aflame with passion for him,” the red-headed squire says next to Jason. “Some of the men as well.”

Jason looks from table to table, taking in each grouping to assess. The crowd watches Dick openly, not bothering to pretend they’re not gossiping about the knight. Jason catches snippets: of how revealing his choice of fashion is, of his strong arms, and of the luck of those who have managed a peek of muscled physique whenever the Dark Heir dismounts his horse or reaches overhead for some purpose. Unsheathing his sword seems to be a crowd favorite action to witness. Jason looks back from the mass at Sir Richard, and watches the man’s face resign to the gossip he knows surrounds him. He is used to such talk.

“Your face, Jason! You look as if you pity him!” Roy says. “Don’t. He may still be a young knight with no squire, but if Sir Richard seeks companionship then he has a fine selection to choose from. He should simply declare a bedmate. All men need a mistress, and if some of the rougher sex try to know him intimately, good lord he’s not just _a knight_ but the best knight behind Sir Bruce.” Roy raises a hand in Dick’s direction and gives a vague wave. “Besides, you know he dresses this way for his audience.”

“No,” Jason says. He knows Dick can be flashy, but above all there is a practicality to his actions. “The cut of his cloth matches his military wear. It’s to better fit his armor while riding.” Jason smirks at his old friend. “Don’t tell me, Sir Oliver still keeps his tunic long? Impractical and out of fashion these days.”

Roy laughs at the assessment. “You speak the truth. In fact, my dear knight is beginning to grow wearisome with some of his more antiquated ideals. And he watches my behavior like a hawk.” He frowns at Jason. “Much like you’re doing to Sir Richard. He does not need your worry or attention, Jason. This is _the Dark Heir_. The golden boy. He is undefeatable in combat.”

Jason refuses to change his current gaze and he continues to observe Dick make his way across the hall. He focuses on the man’s gait: the weight distribution, and the tension in his shoulders—invisible to all but him. Tell tale signs, they are, to something that none here are privy to. Dick’s knee is injured in an age old, exceedingly familiar way.

Jason comes to this conclusion as Roy makes a startling addendum.

“I see Deathstroke has traveled far and wide to be here tonight. Presumably to seek an audience with the Dark Heir.”

Jason had missed him upon his first searching glances, undoubtedly just as the mercenary wished it. But at the far wall of the long room stands a familiar blue and orange sight. Sir Slade Wilson, also known as Deathstroke the Terminator, and a danger to all, but to Dick in particular.

“Make haste, it is almost time for the pledging,” Roy says. “Leave Sir Richard and his bared midriff to the ladies, and possibly Sir Slade. Think about your change in status as the Dark Knight takes you as a squire once you pledge yourself to him. You have waited years for this honor. And everyone knows he is keen to bestow it on you. You will not be denied.”

At that moment, the minstrels strike a chord that subdues all who have gathered in the hall. The chatter dies away, leaving behind a demanding silence.

Sir Bruce Wayne stands from his table, situated front and center in a position of prominence. He commands a manor of knights, an unheard of fief normally reserved for nobles who employ knights for security. _But Bruce Wayne has never been ordinary_ , a voice in the back of Jason’s head reminds him, and he watches the display of the commander’s brilliance before him. Sir Bruce’s black cloak spills from the chair he occupied, cascading to the floor and secured at the Dark Knight’s throat with a silver brooch, warped wings circling around the gathered fabric.

He raises a goblet of welcome to his guests.

“We are gathered here today to continue Gotham’s strongest tradition: the swearing of fealty to a knight and his crusade; and the bond, training, and protection of a squire. It is an honor that none take lightly and requires partnership in the exchanging of words: both squire and knight must pledge, must be willing to accept. Any oath proclaimed today bonds knight and squire not just in the desire for adventure or the holy mission to rid the land of the chaos that has swept across it. No, the bond of a knight and squire means steadfastness and perseverance in times of life and death, through hardship and of ease. Any bond broken will be punished most severely.” Sir Bruce lets the words slowly fall with the weight of their meaning to those who witness.

“Therefore,” he continues, “I ask any who expect to pledge themselves to a knight here today not do so lightly. And I, as do my fellow knights I am sure, pledge to honor and bond with whoever shall offer his shield to me.”

The Dark Knight finds Jason in the crowd and says these words to him only. No one else is expected to pledge themselves to a knight today. It seems as if the whole Gotham region has been waiting these last few years with bated breath; waiting for this moment when Jason finally grew into the promising specimen who now stands amongst them.

Jason knows it is time. That he must disentangle himself from the crowd; must accept the prominence and limelight that comes with his training, his station. He leaves the comfortable side of Roy and steps forward, towards Bruce, and bows.

He does not kneel.

“My thanks to you, Sir Bruce,” Jason says to the stone floor, before righting himself back into an erect position, “for your hospitality and unwavering support for those of us who hope for this day. Who endure the training and education of squiredom. I shall always be grateful to you for the inspiration yielded from your presence and your actions. I hope to remain worthy of it.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow at the words, his mouth set in a hard line. He knows what Jason is saying, where the words are taking him, but he does not know the motive behind them. And once uttered, promises cannot be retracted. Jason almost delights in the fact that never before has he seen Sir Bruce look nervous as he does now and that it should be himself who has born that rare look on the Dark Knight’s face. Instead of a satisfied feeling, however, the full force of what Jason is about to say hits him in the chest. A pathway is closing to him, one he has strived for all his life, but the realization does not bow him over. He does not waver in his decision. He mentally says his goodbyes to a future he is comfortable not having, one where he and Bruce remain partners for decades. A dynasty. Jason has wished for that before. It never works out. In his dreams, Jason can let go and pursue a new hope.

He strides the short distance away from Sir Bruce to where Sir Richard stands for the proceedings. The people gathered around the good knight begin to slink backwards, like they are oil in a pan and Jason is a water droplet flung in by accident. It leaves Dick revealed and gives room for Jason to sink down to a knee. Jason crosses a closed fist across his chest, clenched against his beating heart.

“Sir Richard, the Dark Heir, I pledge myself to be your shield bearer. I will keep horse, chivalry, and the ways of knighthood. I ask you accept my mind to promise you council and my body to promise you salvation.”

Silence permeates the hall. And just as Jason begins to wonder when the initial shock will wear off and the outcries begin, when Dick will seek out Bruce wondering what to do, Jason’s pledge is answered.

Sir Richard the Dark Heir takes a knee with him—the uninjured one, Jason notices—slotting themselves together to make a pact, and reaches an arm out to grasp the back of Jason’s neck. It’s an intimate moment, one of trust. Of loyalty. Of equality. Sir Richard’s face encompasses Jason’s entire view. There is nothing left for Jason but to lock eyes with the knight who is nose to nose with him and receive. He watches Dick tilt his head slightly to lengthen his own neck, inviting them both in supplication of each other. Jason uncurls the fist clenched at his chest to mirror Dick’s hold. His fingers brush against his skin, then take root at the nape, lost in his hair. Jason’s grip is firm in promise, but gentle out of trust.

“I accept your oath, Jason Todd, squire. I charge you to be just, to be brave, and to defend the innocent. Please accept my own promise to care for you, to teach you the ways of knighthood, and to protect you with my life. To this I shall remain faithful.” Dick’s eyes never leave Jason’s own, and they blaze with a determined fierceness.

Then Dick commands to the room, “Anoint us.”

Their gaze breaks as they both look to Sir Bruce. He closes his eyes for a brief second, then gives a nod. As if by magic, an elderly man in fine clothes holding a polished silver tray approaches them. Jason is glad to see him, and in such close proximity, he can feel Dick relax as well at the manservant’s appearance.

“Hello, young masters,” Alfred says. “Please stand and bare your sword arms.”

They stand, Jason careful not to take hold of Dick and help him rise. He cannot give away what Dick works so hard to hide and Jason lets Dick rise with only a slight grunt at his knee's exertion. Both men then roll up their sleeves, revealing their forearms. Alfred sets the tray atop the nearest table and plucks the stopper off a glass bottle. A spiced aroma fills the air.

“Sir Richard, your arm please.”

Dick holds his arm out in front of Alfred and remains still while the manservant pours warm oil onto the skin.

“We await as witnesses, young sir,” Alfred then prods. His voice is posh, his words polished, but a tiny smile appears in just one corner of his mouth and it is enough to set them both at ease and feel that all is right in the world.

Dick moves back to face Jason, where he places his forearm to his and smears the oil onto his skin. With both arms saturated, the men raise their anointed flesh to show the hall their bond is sealed.

Jason thinks maybe he needs to talk to Dick when he wakes up. But for now he is content to dream of adventures for the knight and the squire, and all feels right in the realm.

* * *

Dick Grayson dreams.

The clothes and surroundings are unfamiliar. There’s a heft to his cloth and tension in the posture he holds, like a costumed actor in a play. He doesn’t know where he is, but he feels in his gut a familiar persona and he knows deep down that he’s done this before, thousands of times, that he has lived this life and never lived it.

He walks through the crowded hall, warm and loud. His knee hurts as he makes his way and he wishes for his knee brace, though he knows he must not advertise weakness. He must present a wholesome figure in good health to the crowd. The faces that surround him are strange but familiar, and locked memories tug at a door that remains stubbornly shut. He is not worried. He knows all will make sense eventually and he allows himself to continue searching the room. It is filled with men—ages ranging from late boyhood to geriatric in as diverse a state of dress—and women of maturation and older dressed in great lengths of fabric. Some are in jeweled colored silk, but others mostly wear earth-toned spun wool. There is something about the faces, though, that leave impressions in Dick's gut. His eyes pass over them in a blur, but he feels it just as quickly: a desire to laugh, to inquire, to embrace. He catches more glimpses and spots a man who wears folds of black detailed in silver.

This man is important. This man is important to him.

He turns to look some more at the people. A boy on a stool sits off to himself, a haughty look on his wallflower face. Dick wants to hug him until the boy most assuredly protests. And in a darkened corner, there is a man—in blue and orange—whom Dick wishes did not stand in the room so idly. So languidly. So free and without chains. Dick is tired of him. Tired of the way he haunts his life and now his dreams. The pain in Dick's knee increases as does his heart rate at the thought of fending off the Terminator in this state.

The ceremony continues on with disregard to Dick’s hidden state, and the man in the black cloak stands to command the attention of all who have come. There is a promise to be made here tonight—the air is heavy in anticipation. And that’s when he sees him. That’s when Dick knows whatever promise will be made here, it will not be the one everyone gathered is expecting. A man walks forward and Dick _knows him._ He would know that face anywhere. He would know that face in dreams, in nightmares. If Dick were Heracles made mad by the gods, still he would know this young man.

Jason Todd bows before the Dark Knight, bestows words of honor upon the man that he might wear the words like the midnight cape clasped at his throat and rests with ease across his broad shoulders. But then Jason instead turns to him, to Dick. He walks with knowing steps. He shows no hesitation and he radiates no smug confidence. He is simply a man on a mission.

On a knee before Dick, Jason bows his head, and promises himself as a squire. He promises his body as a shield and his mind as companionship. Dick accepts these gifts with promises of his own: to be a true and faithful knight, to honor their bond above others. He tells Jason this on his own bended knee. The good one, of course, though the pain subsided drastically the moment he realized Jason was here with him. Dick wants to laugh at the situation. They are both pledging to protect each other. They will have to fight to see who gets to take a wound for the other, their martyr tendencies at full force. But mostly, in this room full of empty memories, Dick is glad for Jason. Jason is familiar, and yet more than that; together Dick and Jason can do anything. Together they are indomitable.

Dick loses himself in the dream, succumbing to more sleep and more adventures of the Dark Heir and his Red Squire, as Jason is ultimately referred to. The roads they travel are long and arduous; their days filled with chivalrous journeys and cold nights spent tending to delicate wounds, huddled before an esoteric fire. And every night, they fall asleep still huddled together, bodies pressed close for warmth and comfort. In these moments that exist and also don’t exist, Dick feels so much for Jason. And as Dick falls deeper into dream oblivion, he wills himself to tell Jason what those feelings mean when he wakes up.


	4. Dragon Nightwing & Red Hood

[](https://fancydragonqueendraws.tumblr.com/post/189848837344/thank-you-for-hosting-this-event-it-was-great-fun)


	5. The Pantry

Dick and Jason stand side by side, hands on their hips and stance at the ready, in front of their beloved space: the pantry.

"Well that's new," Jason says.

He refers to the solid steel door complete with security system in the kitchen of Wayne Manor. It’s bizarrely high tech and industrial in a room full of gas ranges, vintage crockery, and novelty dish towels the family insists on displaying. Alfred usually humors the decorative offenders for a few days before replacing them with his usual choice of textiles, but even the swapping of dish towels added to the sense of comfort and warmth while the rest of the house radiates an oppressive loneliness. Now, the steel door adds a flavor of menacing coldness to their favorite room.

"If Alfred really wanted us to stay out of the pantry, why not just tell us?" Dick muses.

"Guess he got fed up with us sneaking chocolate."

"Yeah, but I could really go for a treat right now. And the treats are in there."

Jason tips his head back at Dick. "In the locked pantry."

"Exactly. _Cookies,_ Jay."

" _Caramel sauce,_ Dickie."

They stare at each other—to commiserate, to challenge each other to reckless plots against this steel foe—when Tim breaks their wallowing with an appearance.

"This is bullshit," Tim says without preamble.

"Tell me about it," Dick says.

"I'm the one playing detective on the streets of Gotham _and_ running his stupid company. I'm the resident tech genius, but do you see _me_ with new toys?? NO!"

"Oh, different bullshit," Jason mutters.

Dick just purses his lips and nods.

"So what do I see down in the Cave?" Tim continues, unfazed.

Dick mumbles a guess to himself. "New tech?"

"New tech! Brand new tech that B has all the time in the world for. And it's not like he shares with the rest of us. I have to make everything for myself, developing my own brand as I go. I mean, Jesus, I just got out of Dick's hand-me-downs."

"Hey!" Dick sputters, a knee jerk reaction to the treatment of his Robin suit while Jason chokes on air.

“Ew.”

Dick punches Jason on on the fleshy part of his triceps. “He means the costume, Jay, not whatever you’re on about.”

Tim barrels on. "And to top it off, my coffee mug is missing." He takes a pause to breathe and glare at the two of them, suspicion clear in his eyes. "Have either of you seen it?"

"Your coffee mug?"

"Yes, Jason, haven't you been listening?"

"What's it look like?" Dick asks.

"It's my mug. You'll know it when you see it."

Finished with his interrogation, Tim stalks off, leaving just as quickly as he came in, a hurricane of isolated genius and middle child syndrome whirling together.

Dick and Jason stare at each other, eyes wide, until the force of Tim’s presence is no longer felt. They immediately turn their attention to the locked pantry again.

"Well," Dick says, "what are we going to do about this situation?"

"Whatever it takes."

* * *

“New armor, B?”

Dick Grayson approaches the open locker doors where an immense, full body suit in black with red accents hangs on prominent display. The Cave is characteristically dark and damp and full of metal and electrical contraptions that laugh in the face of rust and circuit shortages. Bruce Wayne stands before the new addition, closely examining the weave of the armor—his fingertips caressing every rivet, panel, and the tightly knit fibers.

Dick pushes forward, climbing onto the tabletop closest to Bruce to sit on. “What is this? A new Hellbat suit? Nothing else with that color scheme comes to mind. Jason will think you’re stealing his look, though. But Jason also thinks he owns the color red.”

Bruce gives a grunt, but continues his examination.

“So, uh, how did you get this new above and beyond piece, anyways?”

Bruce turns from the newest collection to address his oldest ward.

“Every accessory I curate with a specific need: to keep this city safe from threats beyond our imagination. I obtain these pieces through discipline and dedication. I push myself beyond my limits and the universe looks down on me in favor of my selfless, consistent labor.”

Dick narrows his eyes and cocks his head at the speech. The old man’s winding up, and Dick waits for the revelation.

“And then I paid the Wayne Enterprise’s R&D department to make me new armor under my Batman, Incorporated shell,” Bruce concludes.

“Exactly.”

He sends Dick a soft glare of suspicion. “Don’t you have things to be doing?” He places the armor back into the environment controlled storage box and seals it shut.

“On a fine day like this? Nope,” Dick says.

“Hrmn,” Bruce says. “Go somewhere else.”

Dick hops off the tabletop. “Yes, Sir,” he says, giving a mock salute and bounding for the stairs.

"If you see Damian, please send him down for his fitting. He can't avoid this forever."

"Avoid? Or is he missing? When's the last time you saw him?"

"At dinner, two nights ago. I assumed he was with you."

"No, B, I haven't seen him. I'll let him know you're looking for him if I do, though."

Bruce has already moved on from the conversation, lovingly caressing a Batarang of new design.

Dick takes one last look at the storage locker, still open, and Dick commits what B did to retrieve the suit to memory.

* * *

“You find out where it’s at?”

Jason pulls Dick into one of the Manor’s many clandestine alcoves. They stand invisible to the rest of the world, bodies flushed together, surrounded by warm breaths and excitement.

Dick grins, his eyes full of mischief, and of something else unnameable that registers hot in Jason's gut.

"Even better," Dick says. "I got the access code."

* * *

Dick and Jason stand side by side in front of the pantry door again, but this time Jason wears Bruce's bleeding edge black and red armored suit. Dick wears a look of gleeful anticipation. Jason may wear the cool tech, but Dick will slip in first—fingers fisting the prizes of choice.

Their task takes a momentary delay as Tim makes a second appearance.

His eyes sweep up and down the suit, a look of disgust on his face at the situation before him.

"I would've used the suit for good," he says and walks off.

Jason takes this as his cue, instead of as a personal critique against his morality, and bursts open the door with brute force. He's the equivalent of a can opener smashing through a tin can at the speed of light despite the ability of a certain finesse.

But once inside the pantry the size of a small home, he spots something else. Something he and Dick did not calculate for.

_A gremlin._

Jason opens up enough of the suit to reveal himself and says in a staccato voice, _"There's something on the shelf."_

Perched amongst the crackers and baking supplies, Damian Wayne sits upon a pantry shelf dunking a dark chocolate Hobnob into a cup of something warm, if the steam rising off the top is any indicator. Dick siddles in beside Jason and cocks his head at the discovery.

"You two are ruining my moment," the boy says. "I locked this for a reason." He shoves the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.

"You did this?" Dick asks. "But why?"

"I got tired of sharing," Damian replies easily and with an accompanying shrug. “Todd seems to appropriate all of your time now, Grayson. You two are attached at the hip, so I mean to take advantage of your lack of attention to me.” He takes a large gulp of his drink. On the bottom of the mug—clearly affixed—is a distinct picture of one, Tim Drake.

It's the picture, of all things, that sets Jason off.

"You little gremlin!" he yells and leaps from the armored suit to seize the child.

Dick leaps further into the pantry after him; to make sure they don't kill each other. But also, because his favorite cookies are right there. They went to all this trouble after all. And maybe to save Tim's mug from shattering on the floor.

"Go find somewhere else to make out or whatever you’ve been doing!" Damian screeches, scrambling from shelf to shelf.

 _There is that alcove Jason pulled me into. That would do nicely for a make out session,_ Dick thinks.

_Wait. What?_

"Demon brat!" Jason growls back, climbing the shelves, higher and higher.

Dick thinks at the confusing state of things—of his desire to pull Jason by his leather jacket to somewhere more private and surround himself with Jay, of when and how exactly these feelings invaded every cell of him—when the pantry door closes. It dawns on him that the room is larger than he knows is possible; definitely larger than the actual pantry in the beloved kitchen of Wayne Manor. And then he is alone in a sudden darkness to dream of something else, to ponder Jason and the unsaid state of things between them yet another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Based on penta's characterization of "Tim makes an appearance." Slightly inspired by _The IT Crowd_ with some references to the episodes "Something Happened" and "The Red Door."]


	6. Not the End

Dick inhaled a harsh, sudden breath, the breath of someone surfacing from a prolonged dive. Familiar smells - mild detergent and sleep-warmed skin - set him immediately at ease. His face was pressed against something firm but yielding and he nuzzled closer without opening his eyes. Arms tightened around him and he hummed happily.

"Oh," came a voice from outside the softness and warmth, from someone else in the room, and Dick's eyes flew open. Jason - for it had been Jason holding him, of course it had - shot up to sitting, shoving Dick behind him protectively, or at least trying to. They were in a large bed, covered with a lightweight blanket, practically drowning in pillows.

Dick pushed himself out of the pillows to peer around Jason and saw Tim hovering in the doorway looking both surprised and uncertain.

"You're awake," Tim said.

Dick glanced at Jason and when their eyes met, his vision swam. They were in a medieval hall, in another Gotham, in this Gotham, on a field of battle, in a clouded sky. They were warriors, and winged, and knights, and heroes, and villains, and they were _here._

Dick's breath was shaky as he drew it in, phantom pains prickling down his skin. He rubbed his knee through the blanket, noticed Jason pressing a hand to his chest. He'd been struck there with a sword, a talon, a bullet, a crowbar... Dick reached out his own hand to cover Jason's.

Immediately Jason's breathing steadied, and the strange bruising aches vanished from Dick's skin. By the way Jason sat straighter, Dick would guess it was the same for him. He would also guess his own expression mirrored the look of astonishment and wonder Jason was directing at him.

"I'm just… gonna go get Bruce," Tim said. He vanished through the door, leaving Dick and Jason alone in - Dick looked around to double check - yes, a guest room in the manor.

"Are we awake?" Jason asked. It wasn't quite a whisper; his voice was low and creaking with disuse.

"I feel more awake than I have in…" _Lifetimes_ , Dick thought, but did not say. Jason nodded anyway, like he'd heard it. They were both shirtless, and discovered when Jason shoved the blanket aside that they were each wearing only boxers. Dick had definitely not been wearing those the last he remembered. But then, the last he'd remembered, he'd been tracking a magic user in Gotham as Nightwing and now here he was in bed with Jason, sunlight streaming through a window. "Did you dream?" he asked Jason. His own voice needed a little warming up, too.

Jason looked at him sharply. "Dreams. Yeah." But that was all he said before the door opened again and Bruce walked in, Zatanna close on his heels. Dick only realized he still had a hand over Jason's, on his chest, when Jason abruptly yanked his away, leaving Dick to pull his own back or be left fondling Jason's pecs.

"How are you feeling?" Bruce asked.

"Confused," Dick said quickly, because he could practically _taste_ something belligerent queuing itself up on Jason's tongue.

"You were the victims of a soul spell of some kind. An elf got you," Zatanna said.

"An _elf_?" Jason asked.

"Not the pretty Tolkien kind, and not the fun Santa kind," Zatanna clarified. "The old kind. The scary kind. You're really lucky and frankly, I don't know how you're not both dead. Hang on." She raised her hands in front of her like a photographer framing a shot. "Laever rieht sluos."

Dick fought the urge to pull the blanket back over himself.

"Hm," Zatanna said. "That's… different."

"Are they all right?" Bruce rumbled.

"We're fine. At least I am," Jason groused. "If you're not going to explain what's going on, can I go? I've got things to do."

"Elves trade in soul magic, among other things. As near we can tell, he tried to take yours, Dick, and Jason interfered. But somehow, in the process, your soul sort of leaked into his instead of returning entirely to you. That really shouldn't happen, and the mixing of your two essences sort of hijacked Jason's consciousness. But that's not the weird part."

"Are you sure?" Dick asked. Zatanna spared him a small smile.

"The weird part is that that should have been the end of you, Boy Wonder. But you stayed alive with just traces of your soul left, and the two of you actually started balancing yourselves out. That's about when we found you."

"Uh huh," Jason said. "And the shared accommodations?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow, gesturing at the bed they both still occupied. "Was there no room at the inn?"

"Every time we moved you apart, you both flatlined," Bruce said bluntly. "Proximity and unobstructed physical contact produced a positive effect."

"Hence the cuddle times," Z finished. "You might want to check in with Tim, by the way, I think he's a little traumatized. He was on bedside vigil duty last and apparently you two just kept moving closer… and closer…"

Dick snorted. "He's not traumatized. He's probably plotting his blackmail strategy as we speak."

Jason covered a face with a hand and slowly dragged it down. "Great. Spectacular. Where are my pants, I'm leaving."

"Jason, we don't know—" Bruce started.

"No, it should be fine now," Zatanna said. "I mean, it shouldn't be dangerous to separate them. But I do have some questions."

Jason had spotted clothes folded on the nightstand by the bed and was tugging on a pair of pants, so Dick nodded at Zatanna to ask.

“Your consciousnesses were wandering," she started, an eager gleam in her eye. "We don't often get to talk to people who come back from that. What was it like? What did you experience?"

"Nothing important," Jason grunted, and it was like Dick's heart had just been pierced with an icicle. He twisted around to stare at Jason with wide eyes, searching for words. But then Jason met his stare, tipped his head just slightly, swallowed just so, and Dick somehow read the message as clearly as if Jason had spoken it: _Nothing these two need to know. It's between us._

Dick nodded once, barely a dip of his head, and Jason turned from him in a huff, snatching up the shirt that had been left and pulling it on even as he pushed past Zatanna and Bruce.

"Jason," Bruce started, following him out of the room, doubtless to badger him all the way to the front door.

"Nothing important?" Zatanna asked Dick quietly when they were alone. "Really?"

Dick shrugged. "Just some crazy dreams. Wait, though. When you looked at us, you said something was weird. What's weird?"

Zatanna looked like she wanted to return to the subject of dreams, but she let Dick lead the conversation. "Nothing to worry about. It looked like there's still some residual bleedthrough between you two. Distance will probably help with that, but it's hard to say because there's never been a case of someone _surviving_ a soul scramble like this." She looked intently at him. "Hence my curiosity."

"I don't know what to tell you. Seems like it sorted itself out on its own."

"I'm not saying that's impossible," Zatanna allowed. "But it does raise some questions about _why_."

"You're telling me."

* * *

Dick's memories of the night he almost lost his soul were hazy, and, according to Zatanna, he and Jason had lost three days to their soul-walking (which was how Dick had found himself thinking of it, not how Zatanna described it.) Nevertheless, he had no trouble at all locating the damp, dark basement where it had happened.

Jason was there. He was wearing his gear, just as Dick was, and was crouched in the middle of the floor with the fingers of one hand braced against it, peering at it as though he was looking for some trace of what had happened there.

Dick leapt the last few rickety stairs and strode across the room to him, not bothering with stealth. Jason heard him, of course, and rose and turned in one fluid motion.

"They weren't dreams," Dick said firmly, before Jason could say anything. "They were _not_."

"I know. God, Dickie, I know," Jason said, putting his hands up in surrender. Dick stopped abruptly only a foot away from him.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Jason scuffed a boot on the floor. "Sorry I bailed. I needed—"

"I know."

"Oh."

Dick sighed. "We don't have to do this. Z said… she said distance would help."

Jason went still, still like only a Bat-trained vigilante could: like thick ice, or prey that's scented a predator; still with potential. Then he tugged his helmet off and tore away the mask beneath it. "Look at me."

Dick's gloved hand came up to his own domino. He looked down as he peeled it away slowly, then raised his head to meet Jason's gaze.

"Tell me distance will help," Jason said.

Dick could feel his face twisting into a grimace. "I don't— it won't help _me_ ," he admitted, practically choking on the idea. The next words barely made it past the lump in his throat. "But if you wanted—"

Then there were hands bracketing his face, fingers pushing into his hair, a hard, hot mouth crashing into his. He registered, distantly, the clatter of Jason's helmet falling to the floor. He thought maybe he should be touching Jason, too, but all he could do was tip his head back and sigh, the boulder that had been sitting on his chest evaporating into sparrows, into sunshine and the smell of freshly baked cookies and the feel of wind lifting his hair, into everything that made him feel like everything was _right_.

"Dick?" Jason murmured, pulling back slightly.

"Yeah, Jason?"

"You're crying. Did I—"

"I'm happy," Dick said quickly. He touched fingertips to his cheek, forgetting he was wearing gloves. He could feel the wetness on his face now, though. "And relieved. And… and I feel…"

"Put together?" Jason guessed. "Like your back just cracked in just the right way?"

Dick laughed. "Like that, yeah. All those… those other things we saw. Do you think it's true? Did we live all those lives?"

"Feels true. Feels like I finally learned what it's _for_. Everything. All of it. It's for you. To be near you. To protect you. Am I just high on magic or something?"

"No." Dick grabbed Jason's hand and pressed it to his own heart, where there was no way he could feel the beat through the kevlar weave of Dick's suit. But from the look of astonishment on Jason's face, Dick guessed he could anyway. "I've always left room for you, Jay. Didn't always know that's what it was for. But it was always for you."

"To this I'll remain faithful," Jason said, his voice low, steady like he was reciting. The ghosts of a thousand other lifetimes rose in Dick's peripheral vision, desert dusts and rich banners and lighted skylines and blue skies and wings, the smell of rain and sand and sun and wood smoke and forest loam.

"Yes," Dick said simply, and leaned forward to catch Jason's lips in his own.

And the Lesson was learned, twice and thrice and fourfold and forever.


	7. The Future

[](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nottak)


End file.
